Harry's Trials in her Coffeeshop
by Lady Hallen
Summary: Or where opening a coffeeshop gives her more headaches than hunting down rogue Death Eaters.


Harry had nothing against Draco.

He could insult her dead parents, her House, her friends and her honor. But he started to attack her Bakery, and that was the only thing that was really _hers_. Hers to love, hers to work on and the git crossed the line when he said that her decorations were tacky and the desserts she served were bland and tasteless.

She wanted to maul him, her brain shrieking like a banshee at the offense.

Instead, she took a deep breath and said, "Thank you for your critique. Please come again."

No, she did not want him to come again. Asshole. She wanted to name him persona non grata.

"Sure," he drawled, words dripping with sarcasm.

Harry managed not to bite his throat out. Her smile must have reflected that urge though, because he did leave fairly quickly.

Still, she did ask Luna to come and taste her food. Luna might not be a food connoisseur, but she was always honest. She might be insulting, but Luna would always be honest.

Luna didn't say anything about the décor, though she did poke at the plastic flowers with interest.

She pronounced the cookies nice, but not good. The cake passable and a bit thick and her face shut down at the taste of the brownies.

"It's terrible. It has no sugar," Luna said bluntly.

Harry sighed. Apparently, Malfoy had a point. Something about his face just made her blood pressure rise.

"I'll have to overhaul the entire menu then," she muttered. "What do you think, Luna?"

Luna smiled. "You can never go wrong with pasta," she said seriously. "And chocolate milkshakes. Maybe coffee?"

Complete overhaul indeed. Harry had intended to leave the kitchen alone to the cooks, but it seemed she might have to inspect their recipe too.

It would have been a funny thing, with sleep-deprivation happening to her for a week and freaking Pansy Parkinson wandering in her closed bakeshop with a resume.

The look on the pureblood's face could curdle milk.

"Potter," she muttered. "I should have known."

Harry tried not to let her jaw drop. "Are you applying for work, Parkinson?" she asked.

The woman blushed. "What the hell do you think the resume means, cow?"

Harry ground her teeth. The urge to snipe back another insult was overpowering. But if she gave in, they'd be at it the whole day and she still had to test-taste the cupcakes from the recipe Mrs. Weasley gave her.

"You're a bloody pureblood," she said, managing to un-glue her teeth together. "You don't need to work."

Parkinson scoffed. "You don't say that to Weasley's face, do you Potter?"

Okay, so maybe using the argument of blood purity wasn't a good one, but Harry was tired staring at her menu board and wondering what else she could add.

"What are you good at, then?" Harry demanded, throwing caution to the winds and Merlin be damned the consequences. "And sit down, you're hurting my neck."

Parkinson looked shocked, before complying. She folded her feet gracefully and arranged her skirts like it was an afterthought.

"Uhm," she started. "I can speak several languages, wandless magic for levitation and unlocking charms, sing in a choir and arrange a dinner menu."

It was surprising, the amount of irrelevant things Parkinson said. Harry wanted to gape. Purebloods. She was raised to be a wife, or a really good hostess.

Harry wanted to be angry, but really sleep-deprivation. So she found it hysterical instead.

"Can," Harry said slowly, trying to stall. "Did you take Arithmancy in school?"

Parkinson nodded, head jerky like it was pulled by strings.

"How high were your scores?" she asked, because she was finally getting somewhere. "And don't be shy about it."

Parkinson didn't fidget. "Three ranks below Granger."

Harry nodded. "Right. I'll let you do my accounting work for me. You should be a quick study. Basic Accounting isn't harder than Arithmancy. I saw Hermione's worksheets for her homework."

"Wait," Parkinson said incredulously. "I'm hired?"

Harry smiled sardonically. "In case you haven't noticed, Parkinson, I'm extremely understaffed. You'll have to study your arse off though, and I'm making you apprentice under Ted Tonks, because that one has the mind of a steel trap and will let you work for it. I won't open for another two weeks, and that's all you'll have to master numbers."

Parkinson scrambled like her butt was on fire. "Thanks Potter. You won't regret this!"

(x)

Harry had until two days before she started to wonder if she was dreaming.

Lavander Brown applied for waitress. Because Parkinson told Nott, who told Zabini, who told his mother, whose mother told it to the Brown's maid during grocery shopping.

Merlin, it was just like Hogwarts with its own rumor mill, except in a larger scope that included the Minister of Magic visiting her office when she was finally done making her menu and just starting on revising her drafts for her employee roster list.

"This is ridiculous," she told Hermione. "Why doesn't anyone want to work in the ministry? They're all smart enough and well-connected for it."

Hermione's smile was unnervingly knowing. "They remember a terrible master," she said. "A leadership that didn't care for the little things. And they remember you, someone who cared."

That didn't make any bloody _sense_. Harry didn't even do anything for the Slytherins.

"Whatever," she muttered. "I just need some help for my tiramisu. Or do you think I shouldn't serve it?"

Hermione dropped her book and scrambled for the spoon.

It didn't stop with Lavender Brown or Pansy Parkinson. There was Marcus Flint (who was so burly and big that Harry had to sit on her urge to scramble for her wand), Hannah Abbott, Ernie Macmillan and Terry Boot.

While she wasn't the sort to just say yes when someone asked her something, something in the way these people asked her for work just made her say yes, even if it made her brain run around to make work for them.

With a sense of doomed inevitable, Harry made Ernie and Terry work on the tables while she had Hannah manage the till. Marcus Flint was stuck making coffee and it made her hair stand when _he actually did it_. Without complaint.

Harry went to the George's place and stole his bottle of firewhisky like a pesky, annoying little sister.

"I am making a twilight zone," she told George, who sat and laughed at her face. "All four houses, working together. Marcus Flint, George! He actually makes pretty decent coffee, when I had him try it out."

She was still stuck on Flint. Her memory of the Slytherin in her school years were on his brutal Quidditch Training Methods, his unapologetic words for anyone, even his own house when they crossed him and his hatred of anyone telling him what to do.

"I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop," she told him.

George snatched back his firewhisky, no mercy at all on her woes. She needed better friends.

(x)

The other shoe did drop when Parkinson finally reported to work and her shop had its official opening. She and Marcus took one look at each other and imitated a cat and a dog. (With Marcus being the cat and Parkinson being the dog.)

Thankfully, Parkinson had an office while Marcus served the waiting line. Hannah, being a Hufflepuff, was extremely easy to work with and apparently didn't offend Marcus's delicate sensibilities about orders.

Lavender worked well with Terry and Ernie, except for when there were tips and suddenly, Harry was roped in to fix an argument about _sharing_ and _earning what you worked for_.

Harry had such a headache but she'd never had so much fun either.

And then of course, that's when Draco decided to come back and taste her newly improved menu.


End file.
